The Sky Above
by MilkBeanCat76
Summary: Just another telltale with characters from La Corda D'oro Primo Passo. The sky is blue. Call it cerulean. Call it aquamarine. Call it navy. Or just call it blue.
1. Ashes Of Blue

I'd always liked the pale blue of the sky right before sunrise.

They said that for a person—I believe that the adjective before it was called _passionate_—person like me would love the fiery pink of a sunset, shades of orange like brushstrokes painted across a colorless sky. In these instances, I smile, and say that, a sunset is beautiful too.

And it is. But sometimes it's the overlooked that is the prettier. The burnt orange of sunsets and sunrise reminds me of violins, and blue reminds me of...a more living thing. Yes, the violin is alive. What makes it more alive is the human that allows it to sing. I love the violin, but I can love human beings even if they happened to be awkward and quiet even after you've been dating for five years already. So he catches my eyes, holds it, and then looks out of the window of _The Happy Cat. _Fingers curl around the mug of coffee, and I think, again, of violins.

"Don't look at me," he says quietly, but not completely unkindly. I direct my gaze to the sheaf of papers under his hands. It was ironic that the violinist we had all known to be single-mindedly dedicated to only one aspect of the world had chosen to pursue a PhD not just in music, but also in medicine.

"Sorry," he says. "It's just a little bit of…_stress._"

"Okay," I mutter absentmindedly. I twirl the blue pen in my hand and scribble more words onto the notepad, thinking endlessly on irony.

"I'd rather not talk. I'll probably start snapping."

"Okay."

So we sit. Like so many afternoons, side by side, hand in hand with papers in front of us, that we clear together. And at the end of the day we take our violins to the little park with a cathedral and play, a little symphony of our own. Englishwomen gather to listen. And at the end of the day, heading home. It's just one of another afternoon, one of more to come. I like that I have this consistency for it now, and for a long time more to come.

There is a pause. Then, "Kaho?"

"You're feeling especially chatty today," I mutter as I scrawl out a passage about the comparisons of comedies and tragedies, especially that of Romeo and Juliet. Love is a rather stupid thing. Considering my situation, _that _was ironic.

"Believe me when I say that it's against my better wishes. We need to discuss this."

I nod. "So what is it?"

"Actually. The wedding? Of Shimizu and Fuyumi," he says, sounding vaguely amused. "There were two invitations in the mail."

The wedding. I did remember an email about it, but it was one that I had clicked through in a hurry to find the email regarding the assignment that way laid in front of me now.

"That's ironic." I say. Write some more about the rather foolish love of Romeo and Juliet, the one between Lysander and Hermia. Love is ironic. It picks two different people and insists in binding them together.

"Oh really," he chuckles. "Hino. Stop thinking of the ironies in life and love. Listen."

"I heard you, Tsukimori-kun."

"Then help in the compilation of them getting together in a presentation." He sighs. "Personally, I think that's a little overblown."

I think of all the pictures we have in the computer of them.

"So first, after the concours ended,"

"I won that concours," he says lightly. I kick him underneath the table. We know that already. We know how it goes, the violinist who never loses, playing his best at every stage, winning, shrugging it off like it was nothing, the return to daily life, and then the first date. On the rooftop of Seisou.

I ignore the thought.

"It was a little while after the joint performances ended. And they'd gotten to each other a little better, so they spent some time together afterwards," I say.

I remember the first day, Fuyumi's pale face flushed and smiling, and the endless teasing of Nami for all of the flowers that Shimizu liked to weave into her hair, the insistence that she had her hair long, like it was now, cascading just after her back, and the effortless knot I'd taught her to twist it into.

"It's good that Shimizu has someone to look after him," he remarks. Both of us are probably thinking about the tendency Shimizu had of falling asleep or spacing out, anywhere, anytime.

"That's really ironic."

"I thought," Len says, a light hint of mock annoyance in his voice. "That we could settle the irony for a while."

I shrug, turn my gaze back to my paper, and look at him again. _You're not the only one who will ever be busy, you know._

"All right, we have. I think I'll be able to retrieve some old pictures and draw up a timeline. Is there anything more?"

I watch my pen tap against the paper. Len covers his hand over it.

"That's really annoying."

"Everything is annoying to you,"

"That's _especially _annoying, inclusive of thefact that we're supposed to be playing Canon."

I process the information.

"It's rather cliché. The irony of having musicians at musicians' wedding," I laugh, list it down as an example, next to the one that states the irony of the "wittiest wall" in A Midsummer Night's Dream. "Okay, I'm sorry."

"_Kaho. _I have a whole case for patients as a topic for papers, but I'm sitting down and talking through their wedding with you."

And so I shrug, again, and he slides the papers into a file, tucks it back into my bag, retrieves his laptop, and we laugh when all the pictures of Shimizu and Fuyumi appear in the folder, the awkward ones, amusing ones, ones that are painfully cringe-worthy, ones that have obviously been composed one way but went the other. The word _irony _shoots into my mouth again, but I bite it back with another laugh and drag it over to the presentation. Fuyumi probably didn't want overly amusing pictures at her wedding.

"I liked the other one better, Kaho."

"That one was too funny."

"That is exactly my point."

I shake my head no.

_Why not, _he challenges silently, tilts his head, raises an eyebrow.

I grin, slam the lid of his laptop down, and match his position.

"You're telling me that you want awkwardly composed pictures of yourself and whoever you're marrying on a slideshow?"

"What do you mean?"

Rolling my eyes, I stand and sling my bag over my shoulders.

"I mean that I'm leaving for home where I can actually get sufficient time to be productive with my work,"

And the reference to home is for the dormitory ran by Matron Demitri for girls in the Cambridge English major program—cozy, small, and adorably cramped, that was home at London. It was a studious environment. No one unregistered stayed after seven. No one registered left after seven.

He frowns, traces of humor appearing and disappearing from his face, disguises of the situation. "In reference to the statement "_whoever you're marrying_"."

I bite my lip.

"What about that?" I manage.

"Who do you think I'll be marrying, Kaho?"

Inwardly, I curse my choice of words—those were ones that could easily have been cut out without damaging sentence structure. And then I curse Len for being overly sharp.

Outwardly, I smile, albeit awkwardly.

"Let's not. Talk about that," I stammer, an overlapping of incoherence. "What I meant was that Fuyumi deserves some respectable pictures at her wedding, as does. Everyone."

"That doesn't explain your choice of words. If that's what you wanted to say, you would have said it like that."

Once I run outside, it's drizzling slightly, the typical London weather. The raindrops fall onto my cardigan.

"I didn't mean anything."

I look away, face flaming, cursing every single part of myself again.

"If you say so," he reaches out, grabs my hand, and pulls me back. "You are such a liar."

I stare at the ground. Really, my shoes are simply fascinating: a pair of flats, no straps, covering my feet completely with beige cashmere, fitted to the size of my feet, as were all other shoes. This was a revelation.

_Look at me_, his fingers tilt my chin up. I look at the sky, a cross of both grey and blue in all of its glory.

A soft sigh. A pressure on my shoulder. A pair of lips pressed lightly against my forehead. I close my eyes, and the skies disappear when I wrap my arms around Len's shoulders. We stay like that for a moment, frozen like statues, so then I slide my head to rest on his shoulders. He sighs lightly, raises a hand to my head, and then we really stop moving for moments longer.

When I think he might have forgotten what we were discussing, he adds in my ear, "Just so you know, I don't plan on just marrying anyone."


	2. Smoky White

And one day later when I'm sitting by my desk at home, I stare at the bright pixels of the computer screen, the limited types of communication I have now with Fuyumi.

_Hello, Kaho-sempai—_I take note of the font that she has chosen, loops and curls in cursive writing, and resume reading.

_I recently sent you an email regarding the wedding, and I assume that you have already read it. On top of the formal invitation, I wanted to write you a more personal as to the situation. I know that both Tsukimori-sempai and you are pursuing PhDs in Cambridge as of now, and I know that the wedding will be during your school term, but I hope you'll consider gracing this occasion, because it is important to Keichii and I in receiving your blessings. _

_Finally, I wanted to confess that I am a little afraid of this wedding, like everything is happening so soon. I understand that everything is going well, and that I am young but not too young to get married. However, I'm worried about life and its surprises and how it is going to turn out. Kaho-sempai, do you have any suggestions of that?_

_Fuyumi_

I smile a little, thinking more about irony—again. In the environment of literature majors and discussions, it was practically impossible to forget irony. Everything became its dictionary definition, everything became ironic, even in the least ironic of situations, and that in a sense made it even more ironic that it was originally perceived to be. I often lost track of what was ironic, what was supposed to be ironic, what was really ironic. Now everything is just sealed off with a statement of a "_That's ironic_".

Fuyumi's email is simple, chaste and formal, and it sounded similar to her personality—she was still mostly more shy as compared to others. Shimizu is just a taller, manlier version of himself as compared to when I met him.

_Irony. _

"That is irony for you!" somebody yells from next door, and then there's a sound of a book smashing against the wall. "You, _Midsummer Night's Dream, _you are facing irony outside of the contents because—I—am—wrecking you—and you! —Are supposed to be a classic!"

I rolled my eyes, and thought of the highly dramatic French brunette next door. Painfully smart but eccentric at moments, Izabel was probably having another fit over papers that she was insanely worried about (but never worked for), and got the best results anyway.

I type out a response to Fuyumi, something to the words of my planning in getting back to Japan soon, and that I will obviously go to her wedding, not to worry, we all have moments of doubts, but please, believe in yourself and what you are doing—that is how I go through each day with violin, with literature, even with Len, Fuyumi, don't worry—and pressed on the send button. The screen went blank.

Pale, that is the sky above us now—Alice blue at its most vibrant, so faint that it was almost white at its least. So I lie back against my bed and pretend to observe the ceiling, all the while thinking about Japan. The last time I had returned was for the summer, days of violin playing for children, in the park and all public places. I had missed where I grew up, its clean streets swept clean of the colorful bits of wrappers strewn around in certain roads I found here, everybody I knew. But living away, I'd made my friends, pretty bad love/hate-relationships with the cats around here, being pestered by a certain blond fairy, sitting quietly in the cool air of _The Happy Cat_—that had quickly became one of my favorite things on earth—I couldn't exactly deny London, and the memories it held.

When I head downstairs, into the kitchen, Matron Demitri is onto her baking. Matron Demitri is a _matron_. She will probably be an excellent cook for a President. But I am completely fine with having her in the Victorian-style youth hostel, cooking shortbread and English muffins every weekend.

I drag up a chair to watch her move. Matron Demitri is an intriguing character. She liked to bake and nag at all of the girls to please, don't try to sneak people up your room after seven—but she also happened to be thirty-two and had two tattoos. The first one was of a message in a bottle, inked on her back, the patch of skin that was revealed under her messy bun and from where the tank tops begun. The second tattoo was as she stated, "a mistake": a curly line, and a blue butterfly next to it, distinctively shaped wings and intricate patterns. I thought that it was prettier—didn't see how it would be a mistake. She had laughed.

"Ah, to be young and in love with love," she had said, something that I didn't really understand at that time. She had been twenty-nine, and wasn't all that old. "The message in the bottle will serve my romantic streak for the good long remainder of years. A butterfly is too commonplace, too cliché."

And I nodded, but I didn't really understand what she had meant. I didn't know anybody else in Japan with a tattoo. Tsuchiara had emailed me once, some time ago, saying that he had gone into a tattoo parlor, looked at the design of the scorpion, and almost got it. _I wanted to show that I am tough. I don't need anything from anyone. But then, I realized, no. _That had been a rather perplexing email. A few days later, after no reply—I felt awkward—he sent back an email saying that he had been under a little stress with the juggling of his coaching job and studies in the university. I had replied then. It was better to touch on safe ground.

I felt safe as the rain hammered over the roof, surprisingly quite strong, holding up after years and years after being built, watched Matron Demitri bustle around until she turns and asks me, please, not to stare after her like a psychopath, and if I wanted to bake, please say so, or busy yourself with something more constructive, thank you very much, _Ka_ho.

"I don't mind baking," I say, flash a smile at her. She rolls her eyes, holds out a hand and drags me over to the huge bowl where they batter eggs, mix them together, and sift them.

"Don't they have a machine for that?" I ask her as she hands me a spoon, instructs me to stir the vaguely yellow batter in the wooden bowl.

Matron Demitri turns and scowls at me, taps her own spoon impatiently against the rim of the bowl she is holding. "I trust our hands to work better than electricity-operated machines. We invented the machines. We can do better than it."

I smile at her, don't point out that it just helps to mix things together and help to make mixtures fluffier. Instead, I shut up and focus on the bowl, stirring, stirring until the batter is soft, drips smoothly into the bowl when I scoop up a spoon.

"You will want to try some." Matron Demitri laughs, dips a spoon into my bowl, eats it, and then holds it to my mouth.

Involuntarily, I recoil a little. "Isn't that, um, raw…eggs, butter, cream cheese and brown sugar, _and _caster sugar?"

"Yes, completely correct. _Eat._" She says, shaking the spoon a little. A small drop falls to the ground. I lean forward and dip a little with the tip of my tongue.

"Wow? Ew? Fabulous? Horrible?" she asks.

"Um… surprising. I haven't eaten raw egg in a long time." I say. Actually, not ever, but it's trivia that she doesn't need to know about. "The taste is good."

She smiles. Sometimes, she isn't always as unpredictable as she seems—just another person accepting a compliment. Ironic how the most incomprehensible people still possess their innermost human instincts.

"You know," I say out loud. "I think I'm doing a pretty good job of not thinking about irony. The last time I thought of it was fifteen minutes ago."

Matron Demitri chuckles. "Fabulous, darling. Would you like a prize?"

My cheeks heat up slightly. "It's just a lot of talk going on. Irony is kind of hard to forget, especially since you have something like an one-track mind."  
"I can't imagine how distracted you will be with that boy—friend of yours." Her grin is so wide I think it might split her face. "Or shall I say boyfriend without the spacing?"

I bite my lip. "How did you—?"

Matron Demitri has that I-was-once-young-too-darling look on her face, but she doesn't offer examples from her youth. "Please, honey. All of the girls here have suitors. You'd need to be pretty distant to be subtle every time you walk hand-in-hand in the streets. The times he comes to take you out. Or when you're staring at him and vice versa. What about the picture by your bed, and—"

She laughs hard, banging something on the counter when I make a squealing sound almost like a pig to the slaughter

"I'm not blind, dearest."

"You didn't tell me that you were psychic either," I point out, for the first horrible time experience

"Not psychic, not psychic," she waves that away. "Just observant."

"Next time, can you be less observant?"

"Kind of hard not to, Kahoko. There's one pretty boy you've got there. It's very sweet."

I mumble something that I don't understand personally, though if a string of mumbles could be interpreted, it will probably translate into something like "I think it's time to study my shoes again", which I repeat until Matron Demitri reminds me of the batter I am supposed to be holding. And then, with a devilish grin, she presses her own resume button on the let's-make-others-uncomfortable-campaign Limited Edition DVD.

"I mean, could you two be any sweeter? I don't think I've even seen you kiss before. But then again, you're both so reserved. The rest come _flocking _to me, asking for relationship advice, but you were under the delusion that I _didn't know_."

I don't try to deny it, but I don't confirm it, either.

"…Right, Kahoko? Pretty boy, pretty girl, and you are the cutest couple I've ever seen. It's completely…" and she flicks her spoon, sending drops into my face. I laugh, a little too loudly, to cover up her topic of choice as Stephanie and Izabel walk down. Izabel has a chocolate stain on her face, and Stephanie dangling suspiciously brown-colored hands innocently by the sides of her skirt.

"What?" Izabel demands. "What are you talking about?"

"About the. Baked goods," I don't even _know _what is being baked. "In the oven. And how I'm going to take them out."

"Really?" Matron Demitri says, raising an eyebrow to me as she turns. "Who to bring a batch of fifty chocolate-chip cookies to?"

Sometimes, she feels so young—and annoying—that I could curse her. But I smile, and hope that baring teeth so that the tendons in my neck stand out count as good-natured. "Maybe just ten. To some friends."

So I scoop the steaming hot cookies into a lunchbox and bring it out, hoping that Len is up to saccharine-tasting _baked goods_.

Author's Note:

I feel a little awkward writing this, but I wanted to get some things out of the way with this fanfiction: I love La Corda D'Oro. I love its music, and I love how everything develops to be centered around music. With music in my mind, I think of it as a constant expression of life—and with this fanfiction, I wanted to show that not everything has to revolve completely around drama and jealousy or breaking up to get its point across. What if they never meet with the troublesome situations? What if everyone could enjoy a sweet, peaceful life _with _or even without a lot of constantly revolving commotion? I think this message will evolve as the fanfiction grows, but I hope you'll take the time, if you are still reading this, to continue reading the next. Remember, look at the sky above you and remember everything good on Earth worth looking back at.

Oh wow. I sounded serious for once. –Meows- that was _exhausting_, being philosophical. Goodbye.


	3. Blazing Auburn

The old church is beautiful—probably a few hundred years old, its halls are tall, ceilings high and carvings intricately embedded into the walls; lights hanging in glittering arrays. Stained glass shaped into pictures form multicolored pools of light onto the red carpet. The interior is cool, glass doors twisted into tall arches.

I lean against the smoothness of the benches and think of the masses of people fitting into the hall, being preached in a sermon. Books of hymns lie in front of me, and I sit and listen to the violin singing from the stage where Len stands, drawing his bow carefully along the newly replaced strings of his violin. And I will go as far as admit it—I am jealous. His playing is perfect—or close to perfect. There are little errors—always, there will be errors—slips and sloppy draws. But they were always just mistakes. More than once I had tried to listen for something wrong with theory, something running deeper, like a tight vibrato. I found none. Despite everything, I wanted to play well—everybody wants to play well—maybe even better, and I was insanely envious.

But I listen, captivated despite of myself, attracted to the sweet melody, trying to capture it in earnest.

When Len stops, I feel as if I've been jolted from a dream. He holds out a hand, beckoning me over. And when I do, he takes my own hand.

"Do you like this place?"

I smile. "Not as much as I would if I can't play myself. But a certain someone was bent on showing off."

He sends back a stare and lowers his violin, a handsome shade of russet, while not one of the million-dollar Stradivarius or a Guarneri—he was still bidding for them, regardless—was bought, an upgrading of the previous one a year ago, was brand-new, and had sharp, crisp notes and a smooth surface. I think there was something to him that appealed, however, of violins that had been used before, that he was drawing the music from a violin that can sing under different hands. His previous one had belonged to his father, and he had flat-out refused to change it until its dire requirement was blatantly staring him down in the face.

"There are violins kept away in the music rooms," he offers. "We're allowed to use them."

_Really_.

"Then I guess this place is perfect."

"Don't sound so reluctant."

I shrug as he brings me over to a cabinet, where faded black cases full of violins are stacked neatly. When I open one and take it out, I think of the snapped strings each violin encounters, each repair it goes through to correct its sound. How easily violins can get dents. And then I think about how lucky I am to have a brilliant violin for myself. I don't need a Strad to create beautiful music.

The violin I pick out is pretty—aren't they all—with an indentation near the purfling and a fading colour. I reach for the bow, running my fingers against the smoothness of the bow hair and feel a sharp pain against my palm.

It's a glass shard, so tiny that its tangled within the bow, but so sharp it could deliver a fatal fate of severing a nerve. I inhale sharply. It's just another sharp object I need to be more aware of, steer far away from. That means that I don't pick up broken objects, steered clear of scissors and penknives. I am afraid to handle even paper, or sharpen a pencil. That is overblown. That is stupid. There are a million things that I can be called for being as foolish, so _ridiculously afraid, neurotic _to handle things in the way I do—they can be said by non-musicians, even certain musicians. But the fact is that, while I am not a wonderful player, I love my violin. There is no limitation for love, no boundaries or even a reason to have that. Playing the violin to me is important. Not everybody finds something that can make them shake with excitement and passion for like how I feel for violins. Whatever insurance I have for my hands does not limit the dangers.

I bite on my tongue to keep from making noise, turn away from Len so I can peer at my hand. There is no telltale, miniscule dent, no scar or a little spot of red and I hope that my nerves are intact. And then I hope that the glass carries no infection. I light brush a finger against it, and it dislodges easily, falling to the floor with a small chink that I hope Len doesn't hear.

And of course, it only makes sense that he does.

"What was that?" he says, and I feel his eyes bore into the back of my head.

"I didn't hear anything." I try to force my voice into nonchalance, wishing that I had taken acting classes instead of ballet, which I gave up on anyway. I swear Len Tsukimori has the instincts and the ears of a bloodhound.

"Really." His voice is flat with certainty. "Because it sounded rather like a small piece of glass falling to the floor."

I shrug. He bends and comes up with the glass, fingers carefully but firmly wrapped around it, and the sharp, jagged edge almost seems to catch the light filtering from the windows. Len glares.

"Wow. I'm lucky it didn't cut me," I mutter, trying not to fidget.

He ignores me, reaching out and grabbing my hand that was holding the bow a while ago—like always, whenever sharp objects are within contact—and holds it up to where the light is brightest, examines it. And point to the faintest darkening of skin colour on the spot where I got jabbed.

"I'm guessing this what caused by 'what you didn't hear'," he snaps.

"I'm not hurt."

"Yes, just like you were not wet at the bus stop. And like you were not cold, even when you were a 'little bit wet'. And when you didn't need my jacket even though you were shaking, because you just 'felt a little cooler than usual'."

"I'm not even bleeding," I say. "I'm fine."

And I force a rather foolish grin on my face. But I knew what was probably going to come. _What if I had been cut? What if it carried an infection of some sort? What if it hurt my nerves? What if a nerve was severed? What if I lost proper control of my hand? What would happen to my playing?_

Nothing happened. But the chances of something happening still stay—the chances that have to be stripped to a bare minimum to secure my hands, and even so, a terrifyingly huge chance of accident. A violinist doesn't refer to the Hino Kahoko who is afraid of cutting her hands but it doesn't exclude that either.

"It was lodged in the bow, okay? I didn't cut myself with it." I say, albeit somewhat defensively.

He shakes his head, takes the bow to check if there is any more. Like what I found from my previous check, nothing. But I am still instructed to take a new violin, a new bow. And we head to the back garden, the courtyard in which the sound effects are the best—according to the few times Len has been here—to play.

He isn't kidding. There's a balcony that extends long into the garden, huge trees, generous canopy extending over to allow sunlight to flow through the gaps, pooling on the floor. It's just as cold as the rest of the church is, if not cooler, winds and breezes whipping through in every direction. And the sound resounding was brilliant.

Len turns and looks at me, not smiling, but not as frazzled as he had been. Len adjusts the chinrest of his violin, one corner of his mouth slightly tilting up in a half-smile. I smile back in his indication, and I put the violin to fix it under my chin. I stand close to Len, feeling the heat rise from his body. And then, without so much a spoken count, no more gestures or glances, we start exactly on the same point.

I fight the urge to grin and lose my concentration over the violin. My eyes flit to Len, holding the liquid orbs of hazel brown and feel the mass of muscle at my chest thump wildly. I fight the foolish urge to turn around and flee. I think about all the years he had studied in Europe for, the years I'd quietly sat in the audience seat, watching, until one day, somehow, some way, he had cornered me while I was walking on the street to the lonely airport, the dark night, weakly flickering streetlamps extending the shadows from when we first kissed.

Every note was limpid, smooth and crisp in sweet melody. So in the breezy afternoon, I think that Ave Maria may have never sounded better. Despite anything that is going on, or whatever that ever will, when we end and I lean into Len, recreating that moment, I feel the odd feeling of absolute safety. Maybe a fool's instinct.

The blazing strokes of auburn are the last thing I see before I close my eyes, and think that maybe, just maybe, I love the sky at sunset the most after all.

Author's note:

You may or may not have been wondering about my choice to use the point of view of Hino's and Hino only. Why not tell you all that Len was planning, all he was feeling? To me, it's sweeter still when Hino honestly feels that sense of security with him, despite not knowing exactly what is on his mind (will anyone ever truly know?). I don't know where the point of this fanfiction is going, or will go, or even if there will ever be a life-shaking obstacle. All I know is that I've finally put up this chapter, and I'll keep writing, smiling when I read the kindest reviews. And I hope that I have made up my inability to say thank you through this sentence. Because I just did.


	4. Interlude Of Pure

Being on the plane is part-torture, not that I am the type to volunteer myself for it.

This time, though, it is a little different from when I first ventured into Europe for—expecting to be majoring in literature, continue in taking violin lessons, and the internships at the music schools I volunteered for. All I had wanted was to take a look, listen to the sound of violin reverberating through my ears, and get rid of the memories of the rooftop date. And that wasn't quite how it turned out.

Len wraps his fingers around mine, resting on the armrest. Staring out of the window, I catch my own smiling reaction, almost wish that I don't smile every time—and remember that I am lucky to get to do that. Squeeze his hand back. And keep my hand resting right there, feeling the warmth coming from his palm. I don't meet his eyes, caught up in the messy thoughts of England, and then in the thoughts of Japan, and then of all of the concours participants. I am by no means extremely close to most of them, but I am, regardless, still in contact with them. Last I heard of Fuyumi and Shimizu is, of course, their marriage. It's what anyone is discussing now. Hihara plays for an orchestra that performs in Japan and China mostly—Yunoki is finishing business school—Tsuchiara in the local college, and then teaching football classes. And then, surprises of all surprises, the unexpected fact that Len and I are both in Cambridge, studying, and then playing our violins. Against all odds, returning together. I feel my stomach churn a little at meeting everyone. Despite the hours of practice I've put in that classical Canon in D with Len, the thought of playing so publicly, it is still nerve wrecking.

Five and a half years ago I was apprehensive of the long trip, despite what I told everybody.

_I'm happy. _

That's what I told my family, Tsuchiara, and everyone that asked. _I'm really happy, _I'd said, the day I received the letter of scholarship from Cambridge. _It's such a shock, _I said. _And I am so happy. _That was what I did, studying and studying, and then playing the violin, continuing with life like anybody expected me to. And I had been happy. With the sheer luck I had—I didn't have to go to a prestigious music school, I didn't expect to. I had been happy, happy as clams, happy as larks, _overjoyed, _when I received the letter. Hugged everyone I knew really hard, screaming and squealing with joy as part of the obligatory joy.

And then what followed were the weeks of endless congratulations as I attempted to pack my bags, ticked off the long lists of items—the violin and literature books running for head of the list—as the days became countable on five fingers.

The last day was pretty hard.

Again, there were a lot of goodbyes, concerned comments that really didn't need. It was Tsuchiara's eyes that I'd stared into when I left, the fierce, set colour as he gave me the expression that clearly said that he didn't think it was a good idea. But I had left anyway, took all of my baggage and crossed the gates, turning to the obligatory smile and wave, giving a light hug to each and every one of them. I had done everything in The Book of Happy. I bounced on the balls of my feet. I flitted around giggling and smiling for no apparent reason. I said, "I'm so happy!" a lot. I felt tears prickling the back of my eyes, but the underlying excitement that arose, both at the same time, whenever I remembered how I was going to leave. But I knew that, whilst happy, the squeals of excitement had died down the first week after I received the letter.

I should have been happier.

Something kept me away from it. It was far from the pining of home, or the love for everybody I knew. I thought that there was something so sad about leaving, how, despite coming back more or less the same, people found themselves feeling odd and out of place, bristling at the slightest changes in life when they returned. How, despite how much they tried to console themselves, there was no telling what we were leaving back or what we would come back to find.

The posters were everywhere.

Even on the plane, where, opening the magazines, featured several purchasable items on the plane, fashion trends, and then the huge pictures of fanciful churches and concert halls where only the most talented of all virtuosos was fit to perform in. Jacqueline du Pre had—tragically, right at the pinnacle of her career—and so had other musicians, like Fritz Kreisler, at one point. And then, obviously, Len Tsukimori was going to make his way to that stage too. There was a professional headshot, an expressionless face that held the violin close. I felt a jolt of surprise. It was the same one from school. For someone as serious as he was, it was weird that he hadn't a more recent photograph on his resume, which then went on to boast of his many accomplishments, the smallest of which being a concours in Japan, ones that were most important inclusive of words that said "_international_" and "_virtuoso_" and then "_competition_".

I had not been planning to go.

It was so cliché, meeting with a concert like this, just a few weeks after I would reach London, and just so that I could not convince myself not to go with unsatisfactory reasons like settling in and unpacking. Because I knew that until I listened I would be probably drawn to it the way I was already, yearning and yearning to hear that violin of Tsukimori's play again. And it was just going to be one time, I told myself, leaning back against the seat and closing my eyes, my head spinning.

I was exhilarated to be doing that, but I did not have the fantasy of meeting him and even to continue to know him. Even in Japan, all we had was a few weeks of separate interaction, not really enough to forge any long-distance relationships whatsoever. And he wasn't even studying a few hours' drive away. It was around sixteen whole hours of flight alone.

It was not a break up. We weren't there.

And then, just from the weeks that I had ordered the tickets and occasionally managed to forget about the concert and actually be thinking of preparation for college, which wasn't for another few months—I had convinced my family that yes, I wanted to be there and a tourist for a while, get accustomed to most things. I called my mother every day, talked to her about the developments cheerfully. How the room I rented was soundproof, how I spent hours studying English Literature and the history of London, and the remaining time playing sonatas on the violin. Despite being a tourist, the only place I had been was to view the Buckingham Palace after a few hours' bus ride in which I had wandered off towards a quaint music shop. Everything was part of the rich culture of England. I had read the sentences countless times on travel brochures, the tour guides in the agencies had gushed the same thing. But I had not truly understood the meaning of it until I had actually seen London.

The concert approached.

The hall was as beautiful and magnificent as featured inside the brochures. It boasted of plush seating and recent renovation had left the place with the clean smell of construction and pristine walls. There were ushers standing around to extend arms to the seat on the balcony where I had sat, twenty minutes earlier and fiddling with my earphones, a soft piano piece playing gently in my ears. I wondered about the playing styles, and just how much evolution it could undergo in the few years of development.

And the concert began. My eyes were closed.

The playing was aggressive.

It was beautiful, but an angry buzzing, passionate but full of obligation and pent-up emotions, and then, inexplicably, sweeter and softer. He was playing games with the audience, I realized. Not because he wanted to improve the interaction. It was perfect with every resonation—and tainted with the disdain he felt for the music lovers that could not enter into the world of music he was in. They couldn't play as well, and they couldn't understand the music he lived and breathed. When I saw him, it was a jolt straight to my heart, as a sizzle of electricity. I could not see him any clearer than he could probably see me, blinking occasionally at the visualizers whenever the new sonata he was playing appeared. Several were classics—Moonlight Sonata, Tzigane, several others, crisp, sharp notes, quick draws of the bow, and then the mellifluous wailing, straight from the violin.

It was wonderful how some strings and wood could create powerful music. But somehow, it did, and as I filed out later with the music still reverberating in my ears I almost believed that a miracle would happen; an apocalypse, a sudden acceptance in Juilliard. Tsukimori acknowledging my continued existence, somehow.

As soon as the thought entered my mind I gave up and my feet hit the firm grounds of reality again. I shook my head. Nothing of the sort was ever going to happen. I bit back the nonexistent tears in my eyes for dramatic effect, walked out of the concert hall smiling a little, a smile that was not going to gain me the recognition of a lunatic, but a small one that was not completely happy. I had, though, heard the music that I had been aching after from time to time. I didn't expect to be floating on air, but the satisfaction I was prepared for. I was even expecting the vague melancholy, and I embraced both feelings.

And those called for coffee. Ghetto Drink Café (don't ask me why) was the closest one, the one that served good coffee that was stirred and brewed and all fresh. I stared down at the cappuccino I was cupping in my hands, wishing, despite my self, that the foam formed a violin and a bow instead of a plain leaf. I was prepared for the little sinking feeling that I had to experience the two-hour concert all over again.

What couldn't have ever prepared me in a million years was the sharp intake of breath as I stood up from my seat, walking towards the napkin dispenser, the voice that had changed, but yet remained the same, so recognizable and quietly shocked.

"_Kaho_?"

I knew that voice. I would have recognized it anywhere. Tsukimori Len, barely an hour after his concert, in a sweater and a jeans, so casual that it was more of a shock than the actual situation.

Looking back, it was ironic.

Being in the situation, it was a different feeling. The sheer impact it had on me sent a flurry of emotions that unnerved and then overwhelmed me. But I didn't know that it came with the intense longing to launch myself into his arms, something I might have felt, a long, long time ago, but wasn't supposed to still exist years down the road. Maybe it was the homesickness. The happiness of seeing another Japanese I knew. To meet with a fellow concours participant I had not seen in a long time. I smiled, and said hello.

To his credit, he was still incredulous, rubbing his eyes in a movement so unlike him it was comical.

"You…were at the concert?" he said, slowly, taking in the pale green dress that I was wearing, white cardigan looped loosely around my shoulders. I felt could.

"You…were good, as usual." I replied in the same manner, sounding deadpan.

A reluctant smile twisted the corners of his mouth upwards. Despite the vaguely ludicrous situation, all of this felt strangely familiar, albeit tinged with the awkwardness of the distance between.

"Okay." He said. "I wasn't being serious enough."

He shook his head, looking rueful as he brought up a hand to massage his temples. "It's been a long time. Maybe this isn't the best thing to be discussing. How have you been?"

I sat down again. Ordered another cup of coffee at ten at night. I was not going to sleep with everything that was going on with the day. That was the last thing on my mind.

"That's a little more awkward. I'm good. Have you been," no words were usable enough to ask a question in this situation. I had always hated these catch-ups, and here was I, being the lamest of them all. "Well, too?"

He glanced at me. "Yes."

The atmosphere was getting frigid.

"I've cleared the music schooling," he offered quietly. I knew that from the overload of information the brochure offered, but I nodded. He looked up at me, caught my eyes, a silent question being something along the lines of _and what are you doing here? _

"I'm going to be studying literature in Cambridge," I told him.

It was the ultimate bomb of the evening. His eyes widened the way I had only rarely seen it to be, and then a short, incredulous laugh that was disbelieving, and just a slight trace of what might have been happiness.

"This is one _crazy _evening," he said, the expression foreign on this tongue. "I don't believe this."

I stared back.

"I'm studying medicine in the fall. Enrolled in the PhD program. In Cambridge University. Too," he said, sentences coming out short and jerky.

I tried miserably not to splutter. At least I had not taken a drink of my coffee at that point of time, leaving proof of my still-existing sense of self-preservation. Mumbled back a response and really took a drink to conceal my lack of a suitable response. There was just no self-help book handling the things I handled. He relaxed a little, taking a sip of his own coffee, and then looked me straight in the eyes with an intensity that made me want to look away.

"What a coincidence," he said evenly.

We never said "fate".

"It is. I didn't expect you to take medicine."

"There are things outside of music, even for both of us," he paused. "I never expected literature for you either."

"You played well. But you didn't believe in it," I said. I realized that I could say what I wanted to now. Somehow, the little by-the-way-my-life-has-changed exchange had given me the courage.

"No," he admitted honestly. "No, I didn't. I didn't feel the motivation. I've waited for this, I suppose. But out there, in the stage, all of the critics staring, I didn't think of them or whatever they said. I thought it was useless. It was so disconnected."

"That's why I'm taking a break. Trying to get back on track with other things, other people, if I don't love music as much as I should," his cheeks coloured slightly. "You've always said that you did. But sometimes I don't think that I do. I don't pretend it's all smooth sailing, but in moments like that I don't want to be playing for the crowd or myself but for someone I care about."

He stopped again. "I don't know. I just felt like I needed to say it."

"Then, I'm honoured. You can always talk to me, since apparently I am going to be here for a long time."

"I know I can."

We both stood up at that point.

"I'm sorry," he said finally. "I would like to talk, but my tutor would already be angry. I'm supposed to be backstage talking with all of the important personnel. I've a bad headache," he laughed again, shortly. "I kind of want to get the meet-and-greet over with and get Aspirin."

"I know," I took the business card he handed over, his name spelled out in capital letters, a contact number underneath. My fingers brushed against his cooler ones, and for a moment I wished that time would just stop there. Because I had finally placed my odd behavior for the evening. And I couldn't believe that this was all going to happen all over again. I didn't want to be one of another pile of weeping mess. That was not what I was in London for.

I never did anything. I don't remember the softness that took on his eyes, or exactly all parts of the exchange in pristine detail. I don't remember what I said. I don't even remember most things of the evening.

All I still know is that my eyes were closed, my head pressed against Len's chest that night, and my arms coming around to hug him back eventually, that he forgot about whatever backstage obligation he had, and I forgot of all my reservations about this, about him. The only moment that existed truly was the hug. It never became an endless round of kissing and canoodling, but it didn't need to. It was enough. A confirmation.

The confirmation lasts.

When I started off the flight, I remember being upright, sitting straight against the seat. I wake up leaning against Len's shoulder, not even remembering falling asleep. Everything seems like a dream. And then I look out of the window, the sky a shade of blue so pure, and the clouds like heaven around me, and I'm glad that it isn't.


End file.
